Peanut Butter & Blood
by KidsNurse
Summary: House injures himself. So naturally, this requires a call to Wilson, who, naturally, rushes right over. But what happens next might surprise you. It certainly surprises House. 12.07.07 EPILOGUE now posted.
1. Peanut Butter & Blood

**Title: **_Peanut Butter & Blood_  
**Rating: **_G_  
**Characters:** _House, Wilson_  
**Genre:** _Friendship, Unadulterated Fluff  
_**Summary: **_House injures himself. So naturally, this requires a call to Wilson, who--naturally--rushes right over._  
**A/N**_: For **siljab** , because I said I'd do it. Oh, and btw** Silja** , the firstborn'll be arriving via parcel post. Today. :-)  
x-posted  
_

**PEANUT BUTTER & BLOOD**

Wilson winces—again. Not at the site of the huge, snow-white dressing obscuring House's left knee, but at his own incipient headache, threatening to become full-blown any minute now.

"Tell me again," he says slowly to House, "_Exactly_ how you managed to do…" His hand waves in the general direction of House's knee, "_this_."

House sighs with mock patience. "I've told you twice. Lucky for you I believe in thorough patient histories. So let's try it again. Slower this time. And—just for you—I'll leave out some of the harder words."

House has the left leg propped on the coffee table; Wilson has to step over it to take a seat next to House on the couch. Once he's seated, he pronounces, "Ready. I think," and begins to rub at his temples; House rolls his eyes.

"Well, it's simple, really. And dull. Uh… the _story's _dull; the glass wasn't. I dropped a jar of peanut butter. It broke. And _you _weren't here," House continues accusingly, "So I had to clean it up all by myself. Glass, like I said. Dangerous, and all. Especially to a cripple such as myself."

It's Wilson's turn to roll his eyes. "With you so far. You had an everyday kitchen accident, and you'd decided to handle it like a responsible adult. Gotcha."

"So I used the edge of the counter, lowered myself down to the floor. I thought. But turns out, I landed on the broken glass. _Told _you it's a hazard for us cripples."

"Yeah, because no able-bodied person _ever _breaks anything and gets cut during clean-up." Wilson sighs. "Go on. I'm _fascinated_ with this unique story of domestic crisis."

"So anyway, that's pretty much it. Me falling plus shards of lethal glass equals blood. And pain. Lots of both. Pain and blood. Oh, and peanut butter, of course."

"Wait a minute. Back up. You _fell_?"

"I think I just said that."

"No… what you'd _previously _said was you knelt on the floor. So let's run the scene in slow motion, shall we?"

House heaves a forbearing sigh. "Simple. I lost my balance, grabbed for the counter, and came down on my knee, on top of sharp foreign objects."

"You lost your balance… because?"

"I didn't have my cane."

And you didn't have your cane, because?"

"Thought I'd be okay without it."

This was like questioning a four-year-old about mommy's broken lamp. "And you obviously thought you'd be okay because you generated new thigh muscle overnight. I'm so happy for you."

House gives a snort of irritation. "Of course not. I was feeling… good."

Wilson peers suspiciously at House. "_How _good?"

"Good enough to run the Boston Marathon—and win," House says snidely.

"House…."

Sighing, House says, "Might've had… an… extra Vicodin. Or two. So things were looking up. Until I went down. On the floor. Into danger."

"'Extra'," Wilson echoes thoughtfully. "Would that be the _same _'extra' that the rest of us might define as 'recreational?'"

Bingo; House goes silent.

"House, you're a fool. A reckless idiot who actually expected me to be sympathetic. Astounding."

Defensively, House says, "I was stressed; been a tough week. Not like I'm allowed to have an extra drink or something to relax; could be _harmful_, you know."

Wilson snorts, "Not even gonna _bother_ to point out that's never stopped you before. And you'll forgive me if I don't stop right here to _commend_ you on your long, unblemished record of patient compliance."

"Yeah, yeah—can we just forget all that? I'm _bleeding_ to death here. I called you because I need _help_, not harassment!"

Wilson eyes the securely taped, amazingly large pressure bandage House had expertly applied prior to his arrival. "Tetanus shot up to date?"

"Yup."

"You flushed it? Cleaned it? Any glass remaining?"

House reluctantly acknowledges yes, yes, and no.

"And you used an antiseptic?"

House huffs. "Well, _yeah_. World's just _crawling _with superbugs, you know!"

Wilson glances around House's less-than sterile environment and concedes part of that point. "Maybe not the world—but at least this apartment…."

House leans back and says smugly, "_Any_ area lucky enough to have _me_ in it qualifies as the world. Welcome to my world!" He widens his arms expansively.

Wilson shakes his head wearily, says in an undertone, "I can't believe you had me paged out of dinner for this. It was going _so_ well, too, for a first date."

"Probably won't be a second," House observes with mock sympathy—and a smug expression.

Wilson's ready to yell, but judging from the glazed and glassy look in House's eyes, his mellow demeanor, Wilson figures any argument would be just an exercise in diminishing returns. So he settles for a few deep breaths.

"I believe you've got everything under control here, Dr. House. So I'll be leaving now."

"But Jimmy! I've got beer, and porn, and an _injury_. And if you'd been here, _we'd _have beer and porn—and I wouldn't be injured. Don't you think you at least owe me—"

"Oooh, _no_. Stop right there. No way are you putting _any _of this off on me. Not _this _time. And it's my considered, professional opinion that the patient will live, thanks solely to your amazing skills with a first-aid kit. I'm going to get back to my date, try to explain. Don't normally have to explain the whole _you _thing this soon in a relationship, but then _you _don't usually try to bust it up this early, either. So wish me luck." He studies House's pouting face. "Or not."

Wilson starts towards the door, consciously refraining from asking if House will be okay. He's stopped by a groan. Knowing he's gonna regret it, he asks wearily, "What's the matter _now_?"

"Hurts," House sulks.

Wilson smiles. "Just sit there and revel in the joy of being alive after such a close brush with mortality. You'll live, and maybe you'll even _learn_ something." A dubious expression settles on his face. "Forgot for a minute who I was talking to; sorry. You'll live, but we can scratch that whole 'learning' thing. Forget I mentioned it, okay?" Hand on the doorknob, he shakes his head in fond exasperation. "G'night, House."

And just before the door closes behind him, he catches a glimpse of House's grin—House's surprised, amused, _approving _grin.


	2. PB&B: The Epilogue

**PEANUT BUTTER & BLOOD**

**_A/N: _Please Read This--**_It's recently come to my attention that some of my signed reviewers have been receiving critical messages from another registered user at this site. I cannot--I **will **not--allow this to continue. I'm a big girl; if I receive a critical review I can not only handle it, but if the criticism's valid, I greatly appreciate it! Ironic thing is, the signed reviewers have been leaving positive comments which are, apparently, being misinterpreted by the harrasser. I'd like to ask a favor; if you've ever left me a signed review, and then received a message about that review from anyone other than me, I'd much appreciate it if you'd PM or email me (email address is in my profile) and let me know._

**EPILOGUE:**

It's 1:28am when House hears the sound of a key in the lock. "What are _you _doing here?" he mutters irritably.

But Wilson doesn't even glance his way. He's headed straight for the kitchen, an intense, unreadable expression on his face. House sighs and leans his head against the back of the couch. And it doesn't surprise him when Wilson exits the kitchen and heads straight for the bathroom.

In under a minute Wilson is standing in front of him, hands on hips, yelling, "What the _hell _were you trying to pull?"

House opens his eyes and raises his head. "I wasn't trying to _pull _anything. I was trying to make a sandwich. That a crime?"

"That isn't what I meant, and you know it." Wilson's still shouting, and House winces.

"Could you keep it down? I've got neighbors, you know."

"Yeah, and I can understand why you wouldn't wanna clue 'em in on your utter _stupidity_." In one swift move, Wilson's torn the blanket from House's legs; his eyes widen at the sight of the left knee. The pressure bandage has soaked through; there's even a small trickle of drying blood going halfway down House's lower leg.

Wilson drops the two bags he's carrying onto the coffee table and regards House angrily. "Have I mentioned that you're an _idiot_?"

"Not in the last thirty seconds, no," House says wearily.

Wilson's rummaging through one of the bags; he pulls out a suture kit and opens it. As he snaps on the gloves, he mutters, "I can't believe you'd let it get this bad."

"I didn't _let _it do anything," House responds irritably. "It thought up the blood all on its own."

"Why didn't you tell me how deep it was?" Wilson kneels by House's side, removes the soiled dressing and begins to probe the wound. He's relieved to see that the bleeding's pretty much stopped, and that House had told the truth about flushing out the glass. And even his diligent probing isn't causing fresh bleeding—House'll be okay.

"Ouch! That cut is attached to my leg, you know! And—if you'll recall—you weren't too interested in details earlier. You couldn't get out of here fast enough."

Wilson goes silent at that; it's true—he'd been relieved that House didn't appear badly hurt, and anxious to try to salvage his date. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

"What for? Glad that you had your priorities in order." House looks away and says, "Shouldn't have called you anyway."

Wilson's certain he heard wrong. "_What_?"

"I _said_ I shouldn't have called you in the first place."

House clearly means it; Wilson is stunned, and unsure how to respond. Finally, he says, "So why did you?"

House grins mischievously. "It was a test; you passed. Good thing, too, because I'd bet myself you'd show up, and I needed the money."

Wilson doesn't smile. "This was some twisted test of my friendship? My loyalty?"

When House doesn't respond, Wilson takes a deep breath and lets it go explosively, then stands. He's so angry he doesn't trust himself right now. He tears off his gloves and tosses them at the table. "Be back." He clips off the words and heads to the kitchen.

As he soaks a sponge and begins to clean the blood-smeared floor, Wilson's thinking.

_Damn him! I'll bet he's out there getting a real laugh out of this. Got his own private Step'n Fetchit._

Wilson scrubs harder at the blood; it's been a long time since House has made him feel this angry, this put-upon. The determined scrubbing is therapeutic; finally he begins to calm down.

_Wait a second. This is House—the man who once broke his own hand so he wouldn't have to admit how bad he was feeling. The man who didn't come to me about his pain until it was so unbearable he was ready to resort to theft to get his meds. Who catheterized __himself__ rather than ask for my help._

Wilson stands thoughtfully as he remembers why he'd come back here—he'd realized that House had let him go too easily. Hadn't reminded Wilson that the NSAIDs with which he supplemented his Vicodin could cause clotting problems. Hadn't mentioned how deep the laceration was. Hadn't pointed out that—with his left leg injured—his mobility was further impaired.

It hadn't taken Wilson long, after he'd left, to think of all these things himself. What _hadn't _occurred to him, until now, was that House had intentionally refrained from mentioning any of it. Nor had House suggested a trip to the kitchen, or the bathroom. Then Wilson would've _known_—and he'd never have returned to his date.

_I'm the idiot. Let myself get distracted by his antics. I asked the wrong questions, fell for his non-answers. And what test was I passing? He knew I'd show up. Maybe… maybe he wanted to see if I'd put myself first? _Wilson smiles and shakes his head; House never fails to surprise him.

Wilson reenters the living room and stands again in front of House. "Next time, just tell me, okay? I don't enjoy puzzles as much as you do." He smiles tentatively as he reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and prepares to suture the wound.

"More fun letting you figure it out on your own," House grins. "Although I _was _starting to worry you'd made it to second base—in which case I'd have bled to death."

They both laugh as Wilson carefully injects lidocaine around the wound and begins to suture it.

When Wilson's finished, he asks, "That beer-and-porn invitation still open?"

"Always," says House. "But you'll have to get the beer."

"Not a problem." Wilson picks up the second bag and heads toward the kitchen.

"Hope that's more beer," House says, indicating the bag.

Wilson grins. "Nope. Just… an insurance policy, for my next evening out." He reaches into the bag and pulls out a new container of peanut butter—in a _plastic_ jar.


End file.
